Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Chaenomeles japonica,” Orwell said, “flowering quince.” He heard the distinct intake of a half dozen breaths from the flower ladies. “Lovely, aren’t they?” A dozen women in flowered hats were nodding approvingly. The man knows his plants.

  “Nice touch,” whispered Mr. Frith.

  “My wife has Vita Sackville-West’s ghost on speed-dial.”

  “Oh my yes,” said Donna Lee, loud enough to be overheard, “Erika’s garden is becoming quite famous.”

  Orwell knew for a fact that Donna Lee Bricknell had never set eyes on his wife’s garden, nor had she to his knowledge ever called Erika by her first name, but as a public relations move it was on target. The lines had been clearly drawn. Donna Lee Bricknell and Orwell Brennan were united.

  As Orwell took his place beside the Mayor, bending his knees a bit to reduce the height differential, he spotted the Lymans on the far side of the room, near a large yucca, having a whispered conversation. “I think you won that round,” he muttered through his smile.

  “That was just batting practice,” she whispered. “Game hasn’t even started yet.” She lifted her chin as the flashes went off.

  The two women stood by their respective cars in the police lot, having a last word before taking off.

  “Gas and mileage, I’m telling you,” said Adele. “Need a bank loan to fill my tank these days.” She was in a great mood.

  “You got a spot at your place I can stick my car?”

  “Sure. Don’t waste any time getting to the big city, partner. I’ll be booting it.” She climbed behind the wheel. “You eat meat, Stace?”

  “From time to time.”

  “So you’re not a total fucking vegan, right?”

  “Nutritional facts. Red meat is the most efficient protein delivery system.”

  “Definitely. Later. After we brace Serge and his pal. And they better not make us come looking for them. My blood’s up.” She slammed her door and peeled out of the lot.

  Stacy took her time getting settled. She had no intention of trying to beat Del into the city. Not the way she’d taken off. What they had was thin, no getting around it: no witnesses, no evidence except a sapphire ring that might or might not still be in the possession of someone entirely innocent of anything other than being married to someone who’s committed . . . how many murders? And still she was smiling. She buckled up and put the car in gear. Multiple murders. I mean!

  Adele pounded on the door of apartment 304. “Open up, Citizen, it’s the police.”

  There was a distinct snarl from inside, followed by loud Russian phrases that sounded unwelcoming. Yevgeni Grenkov yanked the door open. He was wearing last week’s shirt. The collar was dog-eared and grubby. He pointed at Stacy. “If that woman kicks me again I will sue her for a million dollars. Ten million dollars.” He limped over to the kitchen table and sat sideways. There was a bottle of vodka open. “I have brace on my knee, you know that? I have pain, I can’t sleep. I’m going to sue. I have lawyer now.”

  “Keep yelling like that I’ll fucking kick you myself,” said Adele.

  Stacy had a quick look around the apartment. “Where’s your partner?”

  “He has moved out. Good riddance. He gives me nothing but troubles.” He rubbed his knee and glared at them. “What do you want?”

  “We’re here to arrest you and take you back up to Dockerty,” said Stacy.

  “For what?

  “You’ve been identified as the man who assaulted Anya Zubrovskaya Thursday night. She’s sworn a formal complaint against you.”

  “She is a crazy person.”

  “Yeah, she is kinda daffy, isn’t she?” Adele agreed. She sat across from him. “But she was attacked, and she says you’re the asshole who did it. So what choice do we have?”

  “I know nothing about that crazy woman.” He poured himself a shot and knocked it back in one gulp.

  Stacy kept moving, checking the bedroom, opening the bathroom door, talking as she moved. “Also, Dr. Lorna Ruth has sworn out a complaint. She says you attacked her in her office. You were a busy boy last Thursday.”

  “Who is she, she’s so important I should rob her? You know this woman? She’s rich maybe?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Better you should ask Sergei, maybe he knows who she is. I never heard of her before.”

  “It looked like you were trying to find something. Did you find it?”

  “How could I find it if I wasn’t there?”

  “The two people in the other office saw you run out. They say you and your friend jumped into that little red BMW.”

  “Hoo ha! This is a big laugh. We don’t drive red car on Thursday.”

  Adele smiled. “Oh. What colour was the car you drove?”

  “She did not see anything.”

  “Really? Why? Because you blindsided her? You should have checked for mirrors. Anyway, a judge can decide how credible she is.”

  “Never mind. I don’t say anything.”

  “Well, that’s okay. When we get our hands on Serge, he’ll probably be happy to pin it all on you.”

  “I don’t think he has very high regard for you,” Stacy said.

  Grenkov poured another shot. “He has no regard for anybody except Sergei.” He drank. “He owes me money. He treats me like shit. I was hired to bodyguard, but he makes me do things I was not hired to do. And still he doesn’t pay. When you catch him, do the world a big favour. Send him back to Mother Russia.”

  Citizen Grenkov was only too happy to direct the two women to the Distingue Lounge, where he was certain they would find his employer. The handsome young man Sergei had been chatting with skittered away when he saw their badges. Stacy and Adele sat across from Sergei and let him fume for a moment.

  “You’d better not make us come looking for you again, Serge, or I’ll fucking tie you to a tree until I’m done with you.”

  “I refuse to spend any more time in the company of that animal.”

  “He’s your animal.”

  “He has not changed his shirt in a week.”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s a brute. Not our problem.”

  “You’ve got a few problems though, haven’t you, Mr. Siziva?” said Stacy.

  “I have no problems. I have been released. No charges against me.”

  “That’s in Toronto. We have other priorities in my town. Two breaking and entering charges, plus two assaults, both committed in Dockerty last Thursday.”

  “I assault no one!”

  “Your partner may have actually done the assaulting but you were working together, and that makes you equally culpable.”

  “You can’t prove any of these.”

  “Truth, Mr. Siziva?” Stacy leaned across the table, her face close to his, her expression hostile. “I don’t really care. You’ll be charged. You’ll be given an appearance date. And while that’s happening, Immigration Canada will send someone to look into your situation. After that, you’ll be their problem.”

  “What situation?”

  “You tell me. The story I heard was that you returned home to what was then the Soviet Union in 1982.” She checked her notebook. “Do I have that right? And then you came back some years later.” She closed the notebook and gave him a chilly smile. “Problem is, we can’t find any record of you going back to Moscow, and no record of you reentering Canada. As far as we can figure out, you never left. Can you explain that?”

  He held his face with in both hands and took a deep breath. “What is it you’re looking for?” he asked. “Really. Because it isn’t any silly burglary attempt. And it isn’t my status as a refugee.”

  “Refugee? Is that what you’re calling yourself?”

  “I think maybe you want something else.”

  “Tell you what, Serge,” Adele took over. “Why don’t you try to figure out
what that might be.”

  “I think I have things you need to know.”

  “Good. Let’s start with this: you had my partner’s gun in your possession. I need to know how you got your hands on it. You told them downtown you bought it from some street kid, didn’t know his name, never saw him before.”

  “I would need protection. And some guarantees.”

  “Who will you need protection from, Serge?” She took the photograph out of the envelope and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. “Depends on who scares you the most, I guess.”

  They ate steak. Stacy had a six-ounce New York strip, rare, and enough salad to stock a manger. Adele opted for the twelve-ounce bone-in rib-eye, medium, baked potato with sour cream and chives, stuffed portobello mushroom, a basket of rolls (extra butter was required), a big glass of Chianti, coffee (cream and sugar) and something called “Chocolate Intemperance.” When she had cleaned her plate she sat back, wiped her lips and emitted a ladylike burp. Stacy was looking at her with awe.

  “What? First thing I’ve eaten since that protein thingy you made this morning.”

  “I’m impressed is all. You don’t look like you have any body fat.”

  “Metabolism,” Adele said. “Nervous energy. Plus I need fuel, we’ve got stuff to do.” She checked her watch — 9:30 — and signalled for a coffee refill.

  “I’m good,” Stacy told the server.

  Adele helped herself to cream and sugar, stirred and then leaned back as plates were cleared. “Okay. Got your notes handy?”

  “Always.”

  “So what have we got?”

  Stacy turned to the appropriate pages. “Not enough to make an arrest. Not yet anyway. Let’s see — questionable witnesses supplying hearsay evidence from mostly dead sources, a weapon and a sack of stolen jewels neither of which we can connect in any way to the man we’re after.”

  “Christ! We’re doing great, ain’t we? Thieves, thugs, illegal immigrants and registered crazies. And those are the ones on our side.”

  “On the bright side, it’s looking less and less like your partner committed murder.” Stacy leaned back and shook her head with something like admiration. “So she was there after all. Cool customer our little dancer. Give her that.”

  “I get the feeling she’s been jerking us around all the time. You?”

  “I think she’s been playing a dangerous game. See it from her side: who can she trust?”

  “Better not be playing me.”

  “Feeding us information in neat little pieces.”

  “Yeah, well one of these days maybe I’ll sit her down and sweat the whole story out of her.”

  “I’d buy a ticket to that.”

  Adele finished her coffee and signalled for the check. “This one’s on me,” she said.

  “I should hope so.”

  “So. What’s the drill when you visit a drunk?”

  “You bring a bottle.”

  “Any idea what he drinks these days?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Stacy said.

  “We’ll get him a bottle of Canadian Club. He’ll think he’s died and gone to fucking heaven.”

  “A small one,” Stacy said. “We want his tongue lubricated, not numb.”

  It was dark. Lights on inside the store. Sign on the door: “Close until firther notice.” Figure moving around inside. Knock. Loud voice, crabby. “Closed!” More knocking, less polite this time, brought forth a shambling figure. Darryl looked shaky, rheumy-eyed, unkempt. Stacy and Adele held their badges against the window. He opened the door partway. “Now what?”

  “Mr. Grova?”

  “Louie’s dead. Didn’t you get the news?”

  “Yes, your father,” Stacy said.

  “Stepfather. My name’s Kamen.”

  “Oh, fine. Sorry. Mr. Kamen. Would it be all right if we talked to you for a few minutes? Just clearing up some things.”

  Darryl left the door open and shuffled back to the counter. “He married my mother. That’s the connection. That’s the only fuckin’ connection.” He slumped in his chair behind the glass-front case. On top were an empty paper coffee cup and a torn bag of ripple chips.

  Stacy looked at the display; watches, cameras, pens, cigarette cases, rings, all of it dusty, jumbled. “So you were his stepson. But you’ve lived here quite a few years, haven’t you?”

  “So?” His eyes were on Adele, who was checking out the shelves up and down the narrow aisles, lifting things up and putting them down. “Listen, don’t mess with that stuff, okay? It’s all in the right order.”

  “I can see that,” Adele said. She continued poking and shifting. “Power tools, electronics, very nice.”

  “Gotta do a complete fucking inventory.”

  “Tell me about it,” Adele said. “I’m doing the same thing myself.”

  “Pain in the ass.”

  “Got that right.” Adele moved out of sight.

  “Thirsty work,” Stacy said. She picked up the empty coffee cup. “You deserve a drink, don’t you think?”

  “My girlfriend’s trying to get me to cut back,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” She put the brown paper LCBO sack on the countertop. “Your mother died eleven years ago? Is that right?”

  “So?” His eyes were on the paper bag.

  “So I’m wondering, if her marriage to Louie Grova was the only connection, why’d you stick around all these years?”

  “Hey, I work here, I earn my keep. I drive the van, I pick up the furniture and tools and heavy shit and hump it in. I clean and repair and make sure things work. He didn’t do shit except count his money. Sit behind here like a fat slug all day screwing people out of their nickels and dimes. Get a few bucks out of him like getting the last pickle out of the jar.”

  “But it’s all yours now. You’re his only relative.”

  “Sure it’s mine. Can I open the store? No. Can I sell anything? No. Can I start unloading all this crap? No fucking way. Gotta wait for the courts and the cops and the tax man and everybody else who wants to fuck me over so they can come here and stick in their noses and count up how much they want.”

  Adele’s voice had an echo now, she was at the far end. “Should be a nice profit though, once the legal bullshit gets straightened out.”

  “I’ll try and live that long.”

  “Y’know Mr. Kamen, it’s possible we can speed up the process for you.” Stacy took a small bottle of rye and a can of ginger ale out of the paper bag. “Got any glasses?”

  He waved at a shelf of crockery and crystal. “Take your pick.”

  Stacy chose a glass then pulled a Kleenex from the box on the counter and wiped the rim. “This is probably a difficult time for you. We’re not after you for anything.” He watched her unscrew the cap. She deliberately took her time. “We’re just trying to figure out a few things that your father may have had knowledge of.” She poured a double and handed him the glass. “Ginger ale?”

  He drank it straight down, one gulp, took a deep breath through his nose. “Next round,” he said.

  She poured again. This time she added mixer. “And we’ve pretty much run out of people who were involved, or who knew any of the people who were.”

  He snorted. “That’s because they’re all dead, right?” This time he drank more slowly, enjoying the taste and the glow.

  “Many of them are, yes.”

  “I’m not stupid. I stayed far the fuck away from those deals.”

  “What deals?”

  “Whatever illegal shit he had going.” He had another swallow, waved a hand. “He was into.”

  “You lived with him for how long?”

  “Altogether, I don’t know, twenty years.”

  “Twenty-two,” said Stacy.

  “Whatever. Working
my ass off. In the store, picking up consignments, organizing. Keeping books.”

  “Seems to me in all that time you probably overheard a few things,” Stacy said, “maybe met some people, casually, people who dropped by to see your stepfather.”

  “Yeah. Tell me to get lost. Wanted me out of the way for a while maybe, slip me a few bucks and say, ‘Go to the movies.’ Cheap bastard.”

  “Even so, smart guy like you, over twenty-two years you probably saw and heard a lot. Maybe some stuff you don’t remember. Maybe some stuff you didn’t one hundred percent understand.”

  “Oh I fucking understood all right. I understood Louie was a sneaky piece of shit.”

  “And you probably saw him with some people.” Stacy located the right image on her digital camera and handed it to him. “Like this man, Sergei Siziva.”

  Darryl looked at the face. “Sir Gay Sissyboy. Sure. Showed up once in a while. Wouldn’t sit down in case he got his fancy coat messed up. Usually with some fat prick to watch his back.”

  “Oho! What have we here?” Adele sounded triumphant. She emerged from the darkness holding something by the tips of her thumb and finger. “Hey there Darryl, know what this is?”

  “I haven’t sorted that end yet.”

  “That’s good news,” Adele said. “Your fingerprints might not be all over it.”

  “Is it . . . ?” Stacy started.

  “Oh yeah. It’s a Jordan spring clip holster.”

  “I thought we already had his.” Stacy opened the top of the LCBO bag.

  “Beats me. Got an initial on the back. ‘D.’” She dropped it in the bag. “Any idea where this came from, Darryl?”

  “Christ, who knows? Louie the pack rat. Stuff in here from before Jesus.”

  “Maybe it came from one of these guys.” Adele pulled out her brown envelope. It was getting ragged around the edges.